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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25870615">intrinsically (you knew me)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowavailableinthesky/pseuds/nowavailableinthesky'>nowavailableinthesky</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Warrior Nun (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Avatrice, F/F, Gen, I don't have a plot so much as a loose collection of ideas, also is there a tag for Kristian idk, and an undying weakness for purple prose, bc we WILL be talking about archives, eventually lol</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:29:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,831</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25870615</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowavailableinthesky/pseuds/nowavailableinthesky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>(formerly 'fearfully and wonderfully made')</p><p>It's like this: You fail or almost fail, you hide yourself under the cover of the work you do. You do better, you’d better do better. You become more. The sisters of the Order of the Cruciform Sword know their days will be few.</p><p>No matter. Service to the Lord is your calling; faith is your business.</p><p>(Ava doesn't change everything, let's be real, but she does come damn close.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sister Beatrice/Ava Silva</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>133</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. all the days of my life.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>ready, set, project all your queer Catholic trauma onto badass warrior women</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tw: a fair amount of blood and off-screen violence.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>A girl with a bird she found in the snow</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Then flew up her gown and that's how she knows</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That God made her eyes for crying at birth</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Then left the ground to circle the Earth</em>
</p><p><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KHw7gdJ14uQ">Boy With a Coin</a>, Iron &amp; Wine</p><p> </p><p>The life of a Sister of the Order of the Cruciform Sword is painful and brief. She is intimately familiar with endings.</p><p>This is true and not. The life of a Sister of the OCS often ends in her sisters' arms, or in an infirmary bed, or on hard ground while the sound of battle—grunts, cries, ringing swords and the impact of weapon on flesh—serves as a lullaby that carries her to heaven, to after.</p><p>If she's lucky she receives last rites. In recent years, it is Father Vincent whose task has been to anoint the dying and place the Eucharist on their tongues a final time. In dying, however, most sisters settle for whatever prayers come from their own bloody lips. <em>Into thy hands I commend my spirit... </em></p><p>Beatrice, familiar with death on that day in 2017, lay just out of the line of battle clutching her broken arm. The wraith-possessed weren’t going down easy this time. She lay sheltered by a splintered table—one Sister Mary Shannon had been tossed into a few minutes ago—Shannon herself back in the fray, flanked by Shotgun Mary and Sister Rose Lilith.</p><p>It took a moment for a figure on the floor beside Beatrice to register: Sister Mary Alma, stretched out, hands fluttering at her damp chest. Her rattling breaths could be heard even over the battle-din.</p><p>Beatrice dragged herself nearer, then reached for and clutched one of Sister Alma’s hands. She pressed a kiss to the knuckles, to the fingertips. A glance down at the damage: Nothing to be done. The chest-gash was deep, Alma’s blood moving fast. Death would be a matter of minutes. Alma’s eyes rolled toward her, more white than iris. Beatrice held her gaze steadily and began to pray:</p><p>“<em>Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee.</em>”</p><p>Sister Alma joined in, her wavering voice more air than sound.</p><p>“<em>Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb...</em>”</p><p>Around them, shrieks and red smoke. Bodies against bodies against metal against bone. Beatrice rubbed a thumb over Alma’s bloody knuckles and continued to recite well-worn words:</p><p>“<em>Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners…</em>”</p><p>Between words, Alma became more saint than not. Beatrice watched the stutter-to-stopped motion of her chest still. Somewhere behind them the battle-roar dimmed to a whimper as all the possessed woke up, whatever brought them there banished, they themselves now thrust into bruise and consequence. Beatrice's sisters shouted out each others’ names, names she’d once thought she could never bear to hear said with such grief and sorrow. Sister Claudia Robert, Sister Maria Goretti, Sister Isobel June, Sister Sofia Marta.</p><p>Beatrice whispered alone, “<em>…now and at the hour of our death.</em>"</p><p> </p><p>That was the battle in which Sister Mary Agnes, their leader, was lost—and Sister Margaret Callaghan, next in line, lost too. That was the battle in which seven sisters of the Order of the Cruciform Sword fell. It was the battle in which Sister Mary Shannon was made the halo bearer, and after which (through a series of events that all involved refused to talk about) Sister Rose Lilith, the pride of her family and presumed next in line after the fallen Margaret, withdrew from the company of her closest friends.</p><p>For Beatrice, it is the battle in which something she has no words for finally slips away. Like this: A dead woman’s hand in hers. Sisters around her, the living and the fallen. How do you tell the difference? Who is holding on to who?</p><p> </p><p>The life of a Sister of the OCS ends when she wishes it. It is a quiet affair and no shame at all to request an audience with Mother Superion. Like this: There are two worn chairs behind the ornate wooden door of Mother's office. Sister So-and-So, having knocked—firmly or tentatively—enters and eases herself down into one of the chairs. Sometimes she comes with bandaged limbs. Sometimes with aching old wounds, phantom battle presence in her body. Sometimes she comes with ashes on her tongue and a buzzing, static mind.</p><p>Mother lays down whatever she’s working on and comes to sit in the other chair. The somber conversation that follows is, in many ways, inevitable. Where else can violence lead, no matter the origin or intent? It’s simple physics: The damage I deal is dealt to me. To knock on this door, then, is not escape. It's a next step where steps are few.</p><p>Upon closing the door to Mother’s office, the sister leaves Cat’s Cradle and the OCS. Sometimes she does so quietly, packing up in a matter of hours while the others are at prayer. Sometimes the farewell stretches out over days and weeks and includes at least one party with store-bought cake, balloons, and a bangin’ playlist. After that, these are the options:</p><p>A) Transfer to another order. This involves a substantial amount of paperwork. Surprisingly, it’s the most popular option. Many women religious formerly of the OCS choose contemplative orders and choose live out their remaining days in meditation and prayer. Others serve the Lord in active orders, pursuing paths in education, healthcare, and pastoral ministry. In either path many sisters remain in contact with the OCS and sponsor novices and postulants, sending word to Mother Superion of young women with promise. Many serve as the link between their community and the OCS’s wide-ranging information network.</p><p>B) Return to your family and the life you had before. Also involves a substantial amount of paperwork, largely nondisclosures. Requires utmost discretion and a not unsubstantial amount of therapy. Few who choose this path leave Cat’s Cradle without a sliver of Divinium tucked away in their bags, latter forged into a medallion or wedding band or a strangely glinting pair of earrings. In this new life, who will be there to tell you there’s red smoke nearby? How will you know there's fire?</p><p>C) Leave no record in the world. Leave quietly, leave alone. This requires the least amount of paperwork. No one will know.</p><p> </p><p>There are many endings. You can see them coming after a while, if you’re patient and paranoid and a planner. (Beatrice is at least three of these things…wait.)</p><p>Still, she could not have pictured this: With her beloved sisters in Piazza San Pietro, guarding a (non-Catholic, interesting) formerly paraplegic and commitment-phobic halo bearer, surrounded by the wraith-possessed faithful in numbers never before seen, and all standing before an honest-to-goodness angel(?) of God. Oh, and Father Vincent’s left-turn into Judas-level life choices. Unforeseen, for sure. Definitely not in any of her contingency plans. Individually she might have been able to account for any of these pieces; people are predictable and events tend to play out in patterns (except maybe the Adriel bit, hard to plan for bones being…ah, not bones).</p><p>Then Mary (of course, <em>Mary</em>) hits the ground (no shots fired, why hasn’t she fired?) under a pile of the wraith-possessed. Sister Camila’s on her last arrow (the second-to-last matted with Adriel’s grey matter, lying next to his boots), Sister Lilith can work something (is it enough something?) like miracles, but there’s not enough information, none of them know what it’s doing to her.</p><p>And Ava, nestled between Camila and Lilith, trembles. Beatrice knows this because Ava’s reached around Lilith’s back toward her. Her hand on Beatrice’s forearm is tight and trembling—exhausted, Beatrice knows, because seven minutes after twenty feet and an explosion is not enough, it’s not enough—</p><p>(<em>Mea culpa</em>, I have tried my hardest.) There are many endings. <em>Mother of God... </em></p><p>Looks like this is another one.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. her body, my shield.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tw: a fair amount of blood, violence, some PTSD.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Never accept anything less than the best</em>
</p><p></p><div>
  <p>
    <em>Be true to your needs </em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>And I need you here with me</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qv0f0QcIO20">Falter,</a> Bernhoft</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>In that moment, riding up the road to Cat’s Cradle in her great-uncle’s car, she thinks she'll remember it forever. Set on a hill, the castle cathedral rises above white-walled houses, above the Rio de la Villa that winds through scrubby hills and sparse trees. Sandy stone and peaks. Filled with shadows, good sight lines and strong walls. Her heart has been fluttering in her throat for three weeks now—it doesn’t settle, exactly, but she feels…something. Hope? </p>
</div><div>
  <p>At the door, her great-uncle’s hand is heavy on her shoulder. “Be good, you hear? Be safe. Brother George or I will send word if anything changes. Until then, stay low. Use your head. Just like your family taught you, eh?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She inhales quickly and sharply; tries to hide it, but knows he’s noticed. She pushes it back—grief and fear both—until they don’t sit so warm in her mouth, a coppery taste. Imagines them simmering instead, like tea set to boil. They could boil for a long, long time. She avoids her great-uncle’s eyes and his sympathy.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You’re—they’d be proud of you. Your mum and dad."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He is trying to be gentle. She loves him for this.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The door before them opens and a stern-faced woman with a scar greets them. “Mother Superion,” her great-uncle says, the tone of his voice veering somewhat surprisingly toward respect. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Brother James. You are welcome here. It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Since the Bass.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Indeed. I trust Brother George has recovered and is doing well?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh, the bastard’s still kicking, don’t worry.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Good. I would hate to see him deprived of any opportunity to cause trouble.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Hah!"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The woman turns to her. “Olivia Campbell? Welcome to the Order of the Cruciform Sword. Sister Beatrice—“ she gestures to a young woman in a dark habit, nearly hidden in the shadows by the doorway. The woman steps forward. “—will be helping you get settled in. Do you have any bags?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Mother Superion’s face softens, almost imperceptibly. “That’s not unusual. Laundry room first, Beatrice, then to janitorial for toiletries. I trust you remember where the inventory forms are should any requests need to be put in?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes, Mother Superion.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Good. Welcome again, Olivia. I look forward to guiding you through your postulancy and, hopefully, through your time as a novice.” If her words sound foreboding, Mother Superion doesn’t notice it. She gestures Uncle Jimmy to the side to speak with him at the same time that Sister Beatrice takes a step toward Olivia. Olivia panics for a moment, glancing up at Uncle Jimmy, trying in this moment to memorize his craggy face and huge, gray beard. He blocks out the sun.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Suddenly she's enveloped in a hug of warmth, dense fabric and cologne. She buries her face in his chest for a second, two, then breathes deeply and moves back. She’s rewarded with a quick, whiskery kiss to her forehead. Wrinkling her nose in response is instinctual, and in return she can see him almost smiling.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Then he's turning to Mother Superion, and Beatrice is quietly hovering, and Cat’s Cradle itself looms over her. Olivia looks up. She sends a plea skyward—wordless, almost a prayer.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>If any angels are listening, there is no sign. When the great doors of Cat’s Cradle close they echo, blocking out the sun.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>It’s a while before she stops glancing behind herself. Hesitating before turning corners, ducking when she hears loud sounds? Those habits take much longer to break. Sister Beatrice is a patient guide and clearly sees Olivia’s hesitance, clearly notices when Olivia slips out of Lauds to go sit at the highest point of Cat’s Cradle to watch the sun rise. She says nothing about any of this—instead explains the world around them matter-of-factly, often while folding clothes or scrubbing dishes or demonstrating how to sweep an opponent’s legs out from underneath them. Gradually, Olivia finds herself smiling more and more at the nun. Funny. That hadn’t felt possible, once.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Mother Superion meets with Olivia weekly, as she does with three other postulants (none of whom stay at Cat’s Cradle longer than a month or two—presumably their reasons for leaving are stronger than their reasons to stay). Mother Superion is…never harsh, absolutely not, but unbending. Expectant. The rigid structure she imposes on the hours, days, weeks is intimidating and more than once Olivia finds herself balking at each added responsibility. It’s easier to simply…not do things. What's Mother Superion going to do, kick her out? Where could Olivia possibly go?</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Her great-uncle calls her twice, early on.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Olivia?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Hi, Uncle Jimmy.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Hello. Are you all right? Settling in?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes, Uncle Jimmy, I’m fine. Nothing’s happened."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I worry, you know I do."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I know, I know. I’m being careful. I’m being so careful. I...“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Nothing. I miss you, is all.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You too. Tell me about training, now. What have you learned?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>After he hangs up she spends the night stargazing, wrapped in a blanket in Cat’s Cradle’s easternmost courtyard.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Their second call is briefer than the first.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Olivia.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Hi, Uncle Jimmy.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I don’t have much time, I’m sorry. Everything’s all right, you’re all right—I’m safe, don’t worry—just business. Are you safe?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes, Uncle Jimmy.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Are you happy?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She opens her mouth, then closes it. She says nothing, can say nothing.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He spends half an hour of time he doesn’t have on the phone with her, in silence. She loves him for this.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Bright summer turns Cat’s Cradle into a mess of ivy running up to the very peaks and flowers blooming in raised beds, tucked in crevices or running alongside the castle’s many walls. Olivia’s not quite sure how she missed these in all the months since she’s come here. She’s seated on a bench in her favorite courtyard, marveling at these flowers when Beatrice walks by. Unbidden, Olivia feels an instinctual need to hide. (She is compromised, her brain whispers. No place is safe.) The feeling's silly, here, but for an instant it can’t be shaken.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Beatrice must notice something’s off because she pauses.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Are you all right, Olivia?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Fine! Fine. Just looking at the flowers. There are so many. Who keeps them up?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Beatrice smiles. “Mostly the townspeople. A group of them come up every weekend, spend a day here. They insist it’s their way of showing gratitude, but I think there’s also just something healing about being here, about digging in the dirt. Anyway—they want to do it, and we happily let them.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“That sounds nice.” It must come out as more of a sigh than Olivia intends because she’s faced with Beatrice’s scrutiny. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Olivia? In all seriousness. Something on your mind?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“It’s just...“ There’s so much she can’t say. Except—it bursts from her in a huff. “Why do all of you even do all this? Why try?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Why do I try?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“It’s not—I don’t mean it in a bad way! I mean—“ </p>
</div><div>
  <p>"No, no! It’s all right. It is an important question, you’re right to ask it. I ask myself that all the time. I think any sane person would, living the kind of life we lead. Or coming from the places we’ve come from.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Olivia is silent. Beatrice runs her fingers on the stone of the bench they are sitting on, tracing an invisible pattern. She continues.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"We will fall. We will fail. We will still try. There are no certainties, Olivia. Bad things find us just as easily here in the walls of Cat’s Cradle as they would find anyone out there. More so, statistically speaking. Few people choose to run toward danger as we do. But we do it together. I’m here with you, as are all of us. In times of turbulence and times of gladness. We make no promises here, all right? Only that whatever you go through, I go through, too. Whatever we carry alone, at least <em>we</em> are not alone. That’s my reason why. You understand?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>For all the confidence in her words, Olivia can see the uncertainty in Beatrice’s eyes. It feels personal, what she’s saying. Beatrice—for all her patient explanations, endlessly sharing her wealth of knowledge—does not disclose much about herself. And right then, Olivia feels it hit her: Something to <em>do</em> with her fear and grief. With all that is boiling in me—I find way to give warmth to you. She hugs Beatrice. It takes a bit for it to properly register but Beatrice does hug back, warm and just right.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I understand, I do. Thank you, Beatrice. Really, truly, thank you.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Beatrice smiles. “Anytime, Olivia."</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Outside of the sisters she interacts with daily (Beatrice is her favorite), she knows of three people who, each in their own way, could be considered the essence of what it means to be a member of the Order of the Cruciform Sword. She’s heard about them in casual references to surely unbelievable events, has heard whispers about the seven sisters who died a mere week before she arrived. Olivia has no reference for before, when Sisters Mary Shannon, Rose Lilith, and secular member Shotgun Mary, were closer than blood. She can only observe the aftermath.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Meeting Sister Rose Lilith is...a mistake? Kind of? The tall sister walks past her in the dining hall and—something possesses Olivia, surely, because why else would she dare to say, “Hello, Lilith! Hope you’re having a good day?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Lilith looks at her as though she’s sprouted an extra head. Olivia stops herself from gulping and keeps a smile on her face. Is she sweating? Hopefully she’s not sweating.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“…could be better. Olivia, yes?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes, that’s me!”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You need to work on stamina during training. I can see your knees wobbling from space. Crossbow aim’s good, though.” Then Lilith, in all her dark glory, stalks on past.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>After that she doesn’t avoid Lilith, exactly, but she doesn’t linger in her presence either. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Three weeks pass. Then for the first time (many months into her postulancy) she encounters Shotgun Mary, who just looks <em>tired</em>. It’s mid-morning in the tiny, fourth-floor kitchen. Mary’s dressed in pajamas and clearly gearing up for a day of doing nothing after a grueling (and mysterious) mission. Still, she musters up a greeting.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Hey. Olivia, yeah?” Olivia nods. "You settling in all right?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes! It’s been…well, it took while. But I’m doing better now."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Good, good. Hey, listen—anyone ever gives you trouble, you come to me, okay? I’ll sort it out, we’ll get you fixed up. All right?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Olivia nods enthusiastically. “Tea?” She offers.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Mary looks up, surprised, from where she’s hovering possessively over the Keurig. She glances down at her coffee mug, then up at Olivia. She grins.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah. Yeah, sure, why not? Gimme some tea.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>It’s hard to say if she ever truly meets Sister Mary Shannon. The woman is warm, quick to smile and to offer a kind word or a hand. Yet she always has someplace to be, and whenever she’s present she is also far away. Like sunshine in the cold months, Olivia thinks. Brilliant, but distant. She’d like to know her better, she thinks. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The day she finally feels at home is eight months in. It’s early morning in the cathedral, nuns around her rubbing sleep from their eyes. Only those who’ve been in the order longest look remotely awake. Olivia finds herself rather alert and shakes herself at the feeling. When did her body get used to getting up this early? When did she start looking forward to these hours, parceled out in prayer and song, that measure her days?</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sister Mary Josefa plays the starting note. The cantor sings the antiphon. Olivia feels the sound of it ringing in her bones:</p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>"Cry out with joy to the Lord, all the earth, serve the Lord with gladness!"</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>In that moment her own voice surprises her, the words of the invitatory psalm spilling out from somewhere deep in her chest.  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>"Come, let us sing with joy to the Lord, and shout with joy to the rock who saves us!"</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She’s smiling wide and knows it looks strange. No one’s this happy during morning prayers but this morning, she is. Verse, antiphon, verse. Her voice blending seamlessly with the voices of her sisters.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>"Let us approach him with praise and thanksgiving, and sing joyful songs to the Lord."</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>This is why I’m here, she thinks. Colorful light from the rose windows paints the pews in front her rainbow. This is why I’m here.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>On the day she takes her vows she is utterly relieved. There has been no word from her great-uncle in almost a year. Surely, surely, surely, it’s all blown over and she’s left behind the life of someone who was once Olivia Campbell. Surely here, in the sun-dappled sandstone halls of a literal castle, she can find peace.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>No one is looking for Sister Maria Camila. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <hr/>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>When Ava’s trembling hand leaves her forearm, Beatrice’s heart stops. Literally, absolutely, completely. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Then it slams back into place. All at once they're all in motion, Beatrice diving forward, Camila firing over her shoulder (watch the angle, keep it tight), Lilith bodily flinging herself into the crowd with only slightly more grace than Mary had (are her claws...longer?). And the light, the light behind them grows ever stronger. Mid-afternoon suddenly feels like the brightest, hottest day Beatrice has ever spent tracking wraith-possessed souls at the height of summer. Beatrice yanks Camila’s arrow out of a woman’s shoulder and flings it backwards, trusting her sister to catch it. A spray of warm blood washes the side of her face.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Sorry,” Lilith says, hand dripping. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You’re on laundry duty when we get back.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“As if!” Lilith scoffs, then lunges toward Beatrice who instinctively ducks. More blood rains down on her head. Behind her, an attacking wraith-possessed gurgles and falls. She straightens and glares at Lilith, who only smirks and says, “In this life, Bea.” Then they are both whirling away, caught up in the flow of the fight. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Beatrice’s goals here are simple. No; that’s a lie. Her goals have never been simple. It’s like this: </p>
</div><ul>
<li>
<div>Get to Mary. Keep her safe.</div>
</li>
<li>
<div>Watch Camila’s back. Keep her safe.</div>
</li>
<li>
<div>Get Lilith back home. Keep her safe. </div>
</li>
<li>
<div>Make her way to Ava, to the source of all this light...</div>
</li>
</ul><p>She stops listing before she starts. She starts registering and cataloging an outline, a trajectory, calculated in flashes of light between frantic, furious bodies. A glimpse: Ava, there. Another: Ava in stop-motion. And another, another: Ava is stepping up to Adriel (no, no, no), he is pummeling her in the stomach (<em>no</em>), she is bent in half and radiant. She is vibrating, rising in the air. She is luminous.</p><p></p><div>
  <p>Beatrice, helpless, flings a star at the guard attacking Camila (up off the ground, now, don’t let him have the advantage), kicks a stumbling, snarling woman into Lilith’s reach, sends a prayer Mary’s way and hopes, hopes, hopes for all of them.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>It takes a few seconds (an eternity) for bright spots to fade from her sight. Blinking, fumbling, she feels bodies around her and snatches her hands back, tenses defensively. Nothing strikes her. No fist, blade, or even shoe. (Shoes are surprisingly a common weapon in cases of possession.) Beatrice carefully and slowly gets her feet under her (head <em>ringing</em>, wow) and stands. Her breathing is loud in the silence. Then:</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Mother<em>fucker</em>. That hurt.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Mary!” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“If you do that again, I will kill you, Mary.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>There they are. (Here we are.) Where’s Ava?</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Beatrice finally blinks light back into being and (only mentally, of course) reels a little at the sight of so many unconscious bodies, laid out like petals radiating from a central point where one small body lies—</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She’s at Ava’s side without thought, her brain getting there a bit after her body does (ooh, woozy, put check for concussion on the list…after making a list). Ava looks…peaceful. Her black leather jacket—she’d been so proud of it, twisting and turning in the mirror and asking Beatrice, how does it look, don’t I look <em>good</em>?—is all crumpled at the chest. Long eyelashes motionless. She’s motionless. Beatrice’s heart's back where her body was, it’s not quick like her brain, maybe that’s why her hands feel numb as she reaches for Ava. To do—what? What on earth is she doing?</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Then her heart slams back into her chest and she’s going, list made. First: She puts a hand on Ava’s chest. It rises and falls. Slightly, too slightly, but <em>there</em>. Second: Little to no blood. Thank goodness. Third: Little to no visible red marks or bruising. What damage is visible appears mostly to be from the explosion in Adriel’s tomb— </p>
</div><div>
  <p>A hand on her shoulder. She holds back just in time, throwing star in her fist held level. Behind her, Mary raises a hand slightly in silent acknowledgment that a warning might've been nice. Camila hovers nearby. Lilith stands to the side, keeping guard.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Is Ava—?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Alive.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Good. Good. Is she safe to move? ‘Cause I gotta tell you, apart from not knowing where Adriel went or where fucking Father Vincent is, I don’t like how this looks. Shouldn’t let Duretti get it in his mind that we’re why all these people are kissing pavement.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“We are,” Lilith drawls. Mary rolls her eyes.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I think it’s as safe as we could hope for right now. I think…if this is anything like the last time Ava blew out her powers, she just needs time.” She looks up at her friends.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“We can give that to her. Now, who calls shotgun?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>It’s quiet in the van that a startlingly battered Mary has selected and Camila has hotwired and that they, collectively, have stolen. Beatrice and Lilith, carrying Ava between them, had (mostly) carefully deposited the unconscious halo-bearer in the back and crawled in after her. Now Camila drives while Mary dozes in the front seat. (Or she’s flat-out passed out from her injuries, it’s hard to tell with Mary sometimes.)</p>
</div><div>
  <p>In the back Beatrice has tucked herself against the wall. Lilith is stretched long-limbed across from her, across Ava’s body, all gray hair (odd) and impossible to ignore. Beatrice can tell Lilith's trying to grant her some privacy anyway by the way she steadfastly glares out the tiny back windows at the landscape, as if passing judgement on grazing flocks. Beatrice appreciates the effort.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>And between them, Ava’s body. She’s still. Beatrice’s chest feels cold at the sight. Even without the halo, at the whim of her emotions alone, Ava is…unconquerable? Incorrigible? Definitely both. Her energy is a ping pong ball bouncing infinitely. (It’s relaxing, oddly enough. Watching Ava makes Beatrice feel like she has no obligation to do or be anything in that moment. Ava’s got it taken care of for both of them.) Meanwhile, this stillness and silence is unsettling. Unnatural. Beatrice folds her hands in her lap, very carefully does not let them become fists.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>How many more times? No matter how well she prepares, no matter how good she is, they always end up here.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She glances up, catches Camila’s eyes. (She sees me, I’m seen, can’t let myself be seen like this...) When was it they’d last shared an understanding? In the armory, yes, and before that when Beatrice was going over plans before the battle that took Shannon’s life. Explaining steps and the weapons needed, triple-checking inventory. As always, no promises. (She plans for it all anyway. And still: Here.)</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Soft and intuitive as ever, Camila says nothing, only raises her eyebrows a little as if to say, <em>I’m here with you. Need anything? </em></p>
</div><div>
  <p>Beatrice takes a breath, considers, then shakes her head. No, not today. Instead she shifts forward and begins a catalog of Ava’s condition, looking to see if there’s anything she’s missed. Her hand brushes over Ava’s jacket—</p>
</div><div>
  <p>—and crinkles? Hmmm. Inside Ava’s pocket is a piece of paper, crumpled but intact after whatever Adriel had done that set Ava’s powers to full blast. (Beatrice very determinedly does not remember what it was like to see Ava clutching her stomach, falling.)</p>
</div><div>
  <p>On the paper (scrawled in truly atrocious handwriting) are two names followed by phone numbers—<em>Diego, JC</em>—and a note, pressed deep into the paper:</p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Tell them I died, okay? They should know. Thx</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Beatrice blinks. (My God. My God. What the f—)</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m going to murder Ava.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Every head in the van (apart from the unconscious Ava) snaps toward her.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Beatrice?” Camila says. “Is everything okay?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She startles, fumbles the paper. They all notice. (Of course they notice.) </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What’s that?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I—a note, from Ava. She left in her pocket. It’s for us. She must have been expecting—she must have—“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Gimme.” Mary reaches for it. Beatrice instinctively pulls it close to her chest.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Bea, don’t be paranoid. Just let me see it!”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Beatrice lurches, nearly gives herself a concussion trying to keep the paper out of Mary’s grasp. Of course, Lilith neatly snatches the paper from Beatrice’s hands (darn it), smoothes it out, and reads.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Hmm.” She passes it to Mary.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Diego and...JC? Ohhhhh, right, pretty boy. When me and Lilith were chasing this one to kingdom come, she was going with this guy. They seemed tight, she was pretty ride or die for him. ‘Course, then he watched me get beat up and Lilith die and he ran. Like any reasonable person would do.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Where is he now?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Fuck if I know. When we were on our little vacay, Ava told me that he and his crew move up and down the coasts finding rich people’s houses to hack and camp out in.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What an asshole,” Lilith says.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Your family's rich, of course you’d say that,” is Mary’s retort.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Excuse you, my opinion is entirely my own. He’s an asshole."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Actually.” Heads turn to Beatrice, who sighs. “I hate to say it, but JC sounds like our best option right now at finding a place to rest, gather our strength, and let Ava heal. And she’ll be happy to see him, I’m sure."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Mmhm. Sure. How the fuck do you propose we find this guy?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’m sure it won’t be hard. Just follow the scent of entitlement and cheap cologne."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Entitlement? Coming from you? That’s rich.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“But am I right?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The van’s wheels squeal as Camila steers them to side of the road (“Motherfu—“ “Language!”). She carefully puts the van in park, then turns to face the back.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Bea, hand me your phone. Lilith, give me yours, too. Mary, the note? All right, thanks!”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>With a bright smile, she bounces back in her seat and rapidly dials a number on Beatrice’s phone. Seconds pass. Then:</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Brother George, hi! Is Brother James around…? Okay, great! I’ll wait!” Camila hums to herself, phone pressed between her ear and shoulder while she busily texts JC. The pings of his incoming texts sound distinctly angry and confused.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Uncle Jimmy, hi! I know, I know. It’s been a while. Nothing—no, I swear, it’s been quiet. I’m calling about something <em>completely</em> different. Would you happen to know a place we could stay?"</p>
  <p> </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>"damn right I'm still kicking!! come closer, lemme give you a personal demonstration"</p><p>-brother george, probably</p><p> </p><p>(catch ya next time! @bean)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. of whom shall I be afraid?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>fairly major tw for suicidal ideation; minor tws for abuse and internalized ableism.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><div>
  <p>
    <em>I’ve been alone in the dark and the rain</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>I’ve seen the end and I wasn’t afraid</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>I’ve been in tears and I wasn’t ashamed</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>I hear a sound and the sound that I’m hearing is change</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>—<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pt-qcEQ8acM">Sound of Change</a>, Dirty Heads</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Her head rests on the back of the chair—it’s just a little too big for her. With effort, she pushes her chin up and watches a pair of birds wheel in the sky. Nearby, a set of chimes rings. The courtyard's half-tamed, half-overgrown, sprays of ivy on a leaning trellis and lilies at the feet of the Virgin Mary, who is also watching the sky. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Billy, one of the youngest, stumbles his way toward her and dumps a picture book on her lap. He holds the book up (drops it three separate times) and clumsily turns the pages while she reads to him. When she finishes he smiles, his toothy grin missing several teeth.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>An hour passes. She is rolled back inside. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The year is 2008. She watches the latest episode of "Legend of the Seeker" followed by boring local news. Dinner is a hot roll, mashed potatoes, and dry turkey.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>When she closes her eyes, she sees her mother’s face, sees a bright-colored cartoon <em>BLAM!</em> and cannot separate the two.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She lets her head dangle over the back of the chair. It’s easy to see the sky like this. Blood rushing to the back of her head, it’s almost like feeling dizzy again. She thinks she remembers whirling around as a kid, going in a circle round and round, arms spread wide until defeated by gravity. She thinks she remembers the feeling of grass on the backs of her hands.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Today’s damp and cold and the children stand in small clusters. She strains to hear a group of girls near her, watches them nudge each other and fix their hair, listens as they laugh at a joke inaudible. That’s so funny. It’s funny. Great. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Twenty minutes pass. She is rolled back inside. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The year is 2012. She watches mind-numbing religious lectures on EWTN until a nun takes pity on her and changes the channel. When dinner comes it is cold, chewy meatloaf and soggy peas.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>When she closes her eyes, she sees bright curtains parting, a microphone waiting just for her.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She angles her head as far as it will go. The top corner of the window lands in her vision and if she times it carefully, holds it carefully, her neck won’t go into sudden spasms later. Someone or other has left the window cracked open. She can hear the cracking voice of Peter, who she has only ever seen in glimpses from her bed.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The year is 2017. She watches eight episodes of trashy reality tv in a row, trades a few snide remarks with Sister Frances, and stares at the ceiling, humming a little old-school T-Swift. All in all, a solid day’s work. When dinner comes, Sister Frances’ hand jerks as she lifts the spoon to her mouth. Half the food on it lands on the bed. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Shaky hands? Looks like arthritis is catching up to you, Sister. Better get that checked out.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Ingrate,” Sister Frances hisses. “I pray for you daily that the Lord almighty may grant you a miracle, and from the fount of His mercy heal you! I pray and I pray, child, but God…” Here the nun makes the sign of the cross. “…in His wisdom, does not care for wretched sinners.” When she leaves she takes the dinner tray with her. The spilled food solidifies and begins to smell, slowly crusting on the bedsheets.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>When she closes her eyes, she sees the view from a castle window and a horse and rider in the far-off distance.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>On the last day she remembers, the sky is a deep orange. It’s late, Diego already a lump in the blankets when Sister Frances comes to load her up. Though it’s been some time the transition from bed to chair is surprisingly smooth. Sister Frances carefully lifts her, rearranges her hair where it’s caught on the velcro. That slight tug sends goosebumps up the back of her neck. The nun’s gentleness is off-putting, it’s disturbing—still she craves this, any touch, and hates herself a little for it. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The year is 2019. The statue of the Virgin Mary stands in deep shadows, a wilted bouquet at her feet. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Why am I here?” She asks.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sister Frances is silent behind her, a presence she cannot turn to see. Minutes pass. Fireflies begin to dot the courtyard in dashes of light. High above, stars burn in shapes named and unknown to her. Maybe out there in weightless space, it’d be easier to breathe than it’s ever been down here.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>When she closes her eyes, she sees only darkness.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>For an instant the bed beneath her is cold steel, there is screaming and the smell of burnt flesh and it’s dark, it’s so dark, her lungs are <em>burning</em>. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Then she senses dim light, a room quiet and musty. Starched sheets wrinkle deep under her fingertips. She looks down at them, flexes experimentally. Focuses all her attention on the synchronicity—asks, and her body moves simultaneously—thought to muscle to movement. Then she smiles down at three fingers folded, one straight.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Ha. Nice.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Across the tiny and sparse room a lump is huddled in a chair. Beatrice. The nun's curled into herself, knees tucked under her chin; someone’s draped a blanket over her and half of it has slipped, spilling onto the floor. Light from between slats of the blinds falls in rays on her face. She looks peaceful…and a little bit ridiculous, mouth hanging open, snoring.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ava pulls back her sheets and slides carefully out of the bed, walks toward the chair. Puts one foot after the other in concentration—<em>oh</em>, so this is how you lift and place them, this is how you keep quiet—and bends down to grab the fallen blanket. It’s soft. She watches her own fingers close on it. It’s surprisingly easy to lift it over Beatrice and gently, carefully tuck it back around her.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She’s so small. Like, not absolutely tiny or anything—but here in the dark, her limbs slack, Beatrice looks...young. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Too young. The halo feels heavy and uncomfortable in Ava's back. She shrugs her shoulders awkwardly at the feeling, without relief. Quietly, she leaves.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Closing the door behind her she finds herself in a long brick hallway lined with doors. And crucifixes. God, that’s a lot of portraits of Jesus. As she cranes her neck to look down the hall, a man in brown robes and a long beard steps out from one of the doors. Ava freezes. The man doesn’t. He notices her and, smiling, comes closer.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Welcome to Saint Benedict Monastery. Are you here for Brother James’ retreat?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ava, at a loss, completely agrees. “Yes! Sure. The retreat, which is…?</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Just down the hallway. Make a right when you get to the end and you should see large, glass doors on your left—they lead to the private kitchen. Brother James is unfortunately delayed. His flight is expected in later today. In the meantime, please help yourself to the breakfast materials available.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Sure thing! Will do, Brother…”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Brother Geoffrey.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Thanks! I’ll just scoot on down to the kitchen, don’t let me keep you from praising the Lord and all that.” Ava gives him fingerguns (what?), spins, and hastily makes her way down the hall. When she reaches the glass doors she sees shadows moving just past it, murmuring sound of voices barely audible. She pulls the doors open.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>On the other side, Mary’s leaning against a faded orange kitchen countertop (what, was this place designed in the late fifties? probably yes) sipping coffee and looking badass as usual even this early in the morning. Camila’s crouched over the island, a donut shoved in her mouth and powdered sugar all over her fingertips, the container open in front of her. And at the stove stands a figure expertly scrambling eggs…JC? What?</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“There she is. Finally. Did you have sweet dreams, Sleeping Beauty?” Says Mary.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Ava!” Camila says. Presumably. It’s mostly crumbs. “You’re awake!”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes I am, I'm awake. Uh, hey, could you tell me where I am? Please, thank you, maybe?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Mary chuckles. “Ava Silva. Welcome to the land of the living, a.k.a., Saint Benedict’s Monastery, a.k.a., Camila’s great-uncle’s community. I don’t understand half of what these motherfuckers are saying most of the time but they are generous with the food, so I like.” Camila gives a powdery thumbs up. JC, meanwhile, turns around (is he wearing an apron? <em>God</em>) and he looks so out of place here with her people, it’s weird. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Ava! Hi. Scrambled eggs? How do you like 'em?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“...How do I like scrambled eggs?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yes. Well-done, runny, nix on eggs?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Hah. Well, at the good Saint Michael’s, they didn’t give us much choice. More like, food or no food, am I right?” Everyone looks at her in silence. She adjusts, she’s good, she can readjust.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Uh, well-done. I’ll take that.” JC nods, turns back to the stove. <em>Still</em> super weird. Ava looks at Mary.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Okay, so where the fuck are we and how did I get here? For real this time."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Well, babygirl, you were out. We dragged your ass into a van and Camila made a few calls, got us here. As for the fight—honestly, none of us knows what the fuck happened after you did whatever you did. You laid out <em>everyone</em>. When we came to, Father Vincent and Adriel were gone." </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh. Fuck. So none of this is over, then? We’re worse off than we started? Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m so—"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Hey, not your fault, Ava. None of us expected Adriel to be alive and kicking, you hear me? And Father Vincent—I didn’t see him coming either. I was so wrapped up in what happened to Shannon that I didn’t see what was right in front of my face.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Okay. You’re right. God, I just wish it were easy, you know? I was supposed to destroy the bones and—fuck.” Ava takes a deep breath, bounces on her toes like a boxer getting ready for a fight. "Okay. What's next?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What’s next is you sit and eat your breakfast. You’re making me anxious, hovering like that, it’s too early for this shit. Sit. No one knows we’re here. We’re gonna take it easy this morning, reconvene when Cam’s great-uncle gets in, and <em>then</em> figure out what it is we’re gonna do."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ava nods and takes a seat at the island next to Camila, who happily leans into her side in greeting. Ava grabs a donut from the container and takes a bite. Chews. Thinks. “Hey, wait, where’s Lilith? Oh god, please don’t tell me she died. She’d never let me hear the end of it if I got her killed.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Relax, Lilith can handle herself. And you might want to keep it down, she’s asleep over there.” Ava looks where Mary’s pointing. Lilith is, indeed, asleep. She’s laid out on a couch, her long limbs taking up its entirety—feet dangling over the edge, arms tucked tight around her middle. On top of her: cats. So many cats. All a lovely, sleek, gray. A tiny kitten is nested in Lilith’s hair, almost hidden from view, curled up in a tight ball. Another sprawls on her chest in the cradle of her arms.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Whoa, that’s a lot of cats,” Ava whispers.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Same cat, actually,” Camila says, then sips her orange juice.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Same cat? What do you mean, same—“ </p>
</div><div>
  <p>JC sets a plate of scrambled eggs in front of Ava, then leans on the island in front of her. His arm muscles flex nicely. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Ava. Your eggs, well-done."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ava very pointedly does not say what she’s thinking. “JC! They look eggcellent, wow.” She sets down her donut, shovels in a bite. "So! Now I know how I got here. What're you doing here?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Your—friends?—texted me, said they’d gotten my number from you. I’ll be honest, I didn’t want to come at first. You ladies and whatever you’re involved in make, ah, quite the impression.” He winces. “But I was told you could use a friend, that you wanted them to reach out to me? And Sister Maria Camila here made a really convincing argument.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Camila nods. “I promised donuts."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“She promised donuts. And well, the crew’s kind of scattered for now, so I’m here. Plus it sounded really serious. Is there anything I can do?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Ah, yeah.” Ava sets her fork down, pushes her plate away. "We should probably talk.” She gently tugs him down a nearby hallway, past an open door where men in long, brown robes—aprons overtop—are busy chopping vegetables and stirring pots, manning griddles. Past them, a steel counter separates their work area from a decently-sized cafeteria where more men sit to talk and to eat. Further down the hallway, Ava finds a quiet spot and whirls to face JC.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“So! The long story’s really long, we don’t need to go into all of it. There’s freaky stuff, like what we talking about in the kitchen just now, and some consent issues? I was in a bad place a lot of my life, like I told you before. Being resurr—um, <em>rescued</em> from all that, by the nuns in there, wasn’t my choice. At first I wasn’t happy about the responsibility that came with it, but there’s a lot of bad stuff going on, JC, and these nuns are the ones fighting it. And they need me to fight with them. Yesterday we were working together to do something big. Something really, really important. And I didn’t know what the outcome would be, if I would make it out alive. I figured that someone...well, I figured you should know."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She sees it register on JC’s face, the scale of what she’s involved in. Hates a little bit the way his expression morphs from sympathy verging on pity to increasing concern. (She doesn’t want either from him.)</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Wow. Ava, you’re sure this is the kind of thing you want to be involved in? These nuns seem nice and all, but dying? Whatever the hell you’re up against, do they need you this badly?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“‘The hell you're up against,’ hah…oh, you have no idea. I appreciate the thought, JC, but I don’t really have a choice. Weirdly enough, I actually want to be here now? I know it sounds totally wild and like I’m making some incredibly dumb decision but I choose this. Being here, with them."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>JC doesn’t look happy (or any less concerned) but he nods. “Okay. Okay. Uh, good job on not dying, by the way. I’m glad that those nuns didn’t actually have to call me to say you died.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yup! Good job, me.” They stand in awkward silence. Ava bounces on her toes. “Is this weird?” She says abruptly. "That I never reached out to you after all the freaky stuff, when Lilith kinda-sorta died?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh, right. Weird—but good!—that she’s doing okay now, I guess? And nah, it’s cool. Your life sounds a little intense and—it’s not you, but that’s not for me."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah…"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You okay?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Yeah, I’m okay."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He turns to head back toward the kitchen.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Like if I’m being honest!” She says in a rush. "I don’t think your life was for me, either. I’m sorry, I’m not saying that just because you said a thing and now I have to say a thing, you know?” She gestured between them. “But you’ve been everywhere, you’ve done everything and I haven’t. I want to! I would’ve loved to do that with you, but I think it has to be someone else." She bites her lip, then continues. "I really liked the idea of you? And you too, of course, you’re awesome and fucking built but I don’t really <em>know</em> you. I was running away from so many things and this, us? It wasn’t me running to you. It was just me peacing out, you know?’</p>
</div><div>
  <p>JC nods slowly. “I can understand that. You deserve someone to run with, not too or from?” Ava nods. “I get it, yeah. Thanks for telling me.” They stand in awkward silence for a hot minute, just nodding at each other.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Then JC says, “So…sounds like there's someone else you <em>do</em> want to do all of this with?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ava blushes immediately and intensely.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I. Yes. Um, yes, there is."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“C’mon, tell me! You’re the one who’s kinda-sorta breaking up with me, bro. If you’re gonna rock the boat, you gotta give me something! Ease the pain of our shiperation.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ava gasps. “That was so bad. That—oh my god. No. Even <em>I</em> think that’s terrible, oh my god."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>JC waggles his eyebrows at her. (Even that’s stupidly attractive, what the fuck.)</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Fine. Look, have you met—“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Hey, lovebirds,” Ava nearly jumps out of her skin. Mary. <em>Damn</em>, didn’t hear her coming. The older woman stops just short of them, hands in her pockets and an eyebrow raised. “You done talking yet? Lilith’s up and she wants scrambled eggs.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Cool. Oh, and we’re not a thing. Ava was just telling me that she has a crush—“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Egg time! Right now!” Ava interrupts. "Let’s go! Can’t keep Lilith waiting, haha, she gets prickly when she’s impatient.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“A crush?” Mary drags the word out. “On who?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Stepping back toward the kitchen Ava says, “Prickly, get it? Because she has claws?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Mmhm. I see you, Ava Silva. Don’t think I’m letting this go just because Lilith’s waiting.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Wouldn’t dream of it!” she says, already in motion.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>In the kitchen, morning light streams in full force through doors that open out into a small garden area—part grassy expanse, part rows of turned dirt and leafy green plants, a tiny glass greenhouse just visible past the doorframe. Birds chirp and shit. (Ava’s skin itches with the sudden desire to face-plant in the grass for no reasonable reason at all.) Camila’s at the island still, now intently typing on her phone. Lilith is, of course, exactly where they left her: regally reclining on the couch (still covered in cats). </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Finally. I’m starving.” She doesn’t move an inch. "Two eggs, whites only, with tomatoes, roasted garlic, and pepper."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“That’s—wow. Okay,” JC says. “Coming right up.” He tugs a carton of eggs from the fridge and busies himself at the stovetop. Ava drops down onto her stool at the island and takes a huge bite of scrambled eggs. Full mouth, no secrets. Mary, meanwhile, takes that as an invitation. Leaned against the countertop again, she fixes Ava with an inescapable stare.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“So. You’ve got a crush on someone other than pretty boy here."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ava swallows rapidly, almost choking in the process. She looks around. Camila’s already glancing up from her phone curiously—damn it. Lilith’s closed her eyes again and could be lost to the world if it weren’t for the smirk on her face. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Mm-mm, nope, nothing of the sort. I am certified crush-free.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Mary leans forward. “Who is it?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ava keeps her mouth shut and politely flips her off. Mary laughs.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Nah, it’s all right. I know your tells. I’m going to figure you out, Silva. You’re like a puppy, slobbering your emotions all over the place."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ava gasps in affront, letting her fork clatter onto the plate. “Hey! I do not slobber!” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Do too.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Do not!” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Do too.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Do n—“ </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Meow!” They glance over to where Lilith has shifted to glare at them. A freshly displaced cat sits at her feet, leg stuck out, thoroughly licking its toebeans before moving on to other parts. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Right then a sleepy, apparently just-woken Beatrice comes into the kitchen. Her movements are as deliberate and controlled as ever—yet she looks softer somehow, her eyes lidded with leftover sleep, Ava can’t look away. Her hair’s pulled back in a loose ponytail. (Her <em>hair</em>, wow.) The navy sleep shirt she’s wearing is too big for her and she’s just so <em>soft</em>, god. Then Beatrice zeroes her focus in on Ava, whose skin prickles and she doesn’t know if the look in Beatrice’s eyes is a good one or a bad one but either way, she wants to move out of the path of whatever force of nature is coming her way.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The force in question reaches into a nearby duffle bag on the floor, retrieves something, then marches up to the island and slides a piece of paper across.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Would you care to explain this, Ava?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ava looks down at the piece of paper. (Oh. Yeah. Fuck.)</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“It’s nothing, I swear, really.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Dying</em> is not nothing."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I—look. You said this was our best shot at ending this, right? Destroy Adriel’s bones, get rid of the anchor that keeps bringing demons into our world? Getting his bones depended on me. And I’m a fuck-up, Bea. It’s what I do, right? I wasn’t supposed to be the halo-bearer but I am and if I couldn’t get the bones out or destroy them for whatever reason, I could at least keep the halo out of Duretti’s control. Make sure no one else could reach the Relic of Adriel. I could make sure…” She bites her lip, trails off.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Beatrice is deathly still. “You were planning on staying in the tomb?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ava nods. “In the walls, actually. And if we failed, yes. Which I guess we did, but. You know what I mean."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Beatrice looks down at the note and smoothes it out. Slowly, she unfolds one creased corner, presses it into the countertop. The crinkling noise is the loudest sound in the room.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“And you were planning to tell us this when?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I…” There is no good answer. “I wasn’t.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Beatrice looks up now, eyes blazing. Ava’s pinned and she feels so, so small all of a sudden. “We are your <em>team</em>, Ava! Trust us! The very reason we are here is so that not one of us has to act alone. Instead, you foolishly—ugh! What's more, we cannot possibly watch your back if you’re intent on sacrificing yourself the instant you begin to fear failure. We are <em>counting</em> on you—“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Then suddenly, Beatrice deflates. Whatever anger has possessed her subsides. She is quiet as she says, “Let me clarify. The Order of the Cruciform Sword is centuries old, Ava. You alone are not what makes or breaks this mission. Grow up.” With that she takes the note and leaves the kitchen.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ava watches her go, then drops her head on the counter and groans. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>With a gentle touch to her back Camila says, “I’m very glad you didn’t die, Ava. And you know, Beatrice is right.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Ouch, Cam. You too?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh, not like that, Ava. Beatrice was a little harsh—she’s just worried about you, I think. What I mean is she’s right—you’re not alone. We’re your team! You can come to us and we’ll help you. Always. After all, we’re all in this together.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Hah. Go, Wildcats?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Camila grins. “Yes. Go, Wildcats!”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Don’t expect me to join in,” says Mary. "Yes, I’m here. Yes, you can come to me. No, I will not do any choreographed dance numbers."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>On the couch, Lilith opens one eye. “Hey, pretty boy.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Jesus FUCK,” JC swears, fumbling a pan in the kitchen. "I didn’t know you were awake.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>A smirking Lilith asks, “Are my scrambled eggs done yet?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>To his credit, JC doesn’t roll his eyes. Ava would've. “Almost, let me just plate them for you.” He bustles around the small kitchen. (The apron’s seriously a good look on the dude, not gonna lie.) Ava leans sideways into Camila, who readily supports her. Her head on the nun’s shoulder, she closes her eyes. Like this it’s easier to focus on what she’s feeling: Warm sunlight. The wood of the stool digging into her thighs. Clinking and clanking from wherever JC is now; the burbling sound of Mary’s next cup of coffee brewing. The scent, too—hot oil, cooked eggs, powdered sugar, roasted coffee. It’s a little overwhelming. At the same time, it reminds her of the body she’s in. She nestles further into Camila’s side and sighs. If only this were enough, right? To taste, to feel, to absorb everything. Why does <em>doing</em> things have to be so sucky?</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Meow!"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She’s jolted out of her thoughts by a cat’s yowl. “Uh, guys?” JC says. “Wasn’t Lilith just here?” Sure enough, the couch is empty except for a single, startled kitten, mouth open in dismay.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Huh, that’s weird. Maybe she changed her mind about eggs,” says Camila. "You know what, I’ll text her after I finish asking Lou if we’re still on for virtual game night tomorrow.” She must feel Ava’s incredulous gaze because she defensively adds, “What? There’s wifi here!"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Okay, Sister Twenty-First Century. Just impressed, that’s all."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You!” Ava startles for the umpteenth time this morning as a monk enters the kitchen. His back is slightly hunched and he leans on two canes, forearms slotted through two plastic rings. A gray-streaked beard curls up under his chin, his eyebrows thick and boxy. His eyes gleam. Pausing in the entryway, he jerks his chin in their general direction. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“...Me?” Ava asks.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You look like a strapping young individual. Today just so happens to be load-in for the food pantry and we’re short a man. Lots to move! The truck won’t wait! Care to volunteer?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ava glances around her. Mary’s already hastily making her way out of the kitchen. Damn it. JC’s eating the eggs he made for Lilith (and has apparently escaped this man’s notice, despite being a—what’s the phrase?—strapping young individual). And Camila’s—wait, why’s Camila getting up?</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She goes up to the man and hugs him. "Hi, Brother George!"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Hugging back, one hand still grasping a cane, he says, "Olivia! No, no, do forgive me, it’s—"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Sister Maria Camila, Brother George."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Ah, a beautiful name. Beautiful! Just like your—"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“—you said you had something for Ava to do, Brother?” Camila interrupts. He laughs.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Don’t think you’re off the hook, Sister Maria Camila." He pronounces each syllable of her name. "I expect a full report from you on what you’ve been up to the past three and a half years!"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Camila smiles, ducks her head. “Of course, Brother George! You, me, Uncle Jimmy. I’ll make tea tonight and we can talk.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Looking forward to it, dear.” He grins fondly at her. “Now! Enough dilly-dallying! You, young lady with the face!“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Me?” Ava, being in possession of a face and having been his most recent point of focus aside from Camila, has no choice but to assume he’s talking about her.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Onwards! To the food truck!”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ava shoots a pleading, bewildered look backwards. Camila smiles and says, “Have fun, Ava!”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Fun’s…a word, sure. For this? Not really, doesn’t apply. She follows Brother George down the hallway and through the noisy kitchen out another set of doors. (She tries her best not to watch and wince at his ungainly motion, the swing and tha-thunk of his canes landing forwards, body swaying after.)</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Outside, a waiting truck idles and volunteers—some in the long brown robes she’s been seeing everywhere, some not—work to load food from the kitchen into the truck. Ava’s job is to relay count from the truck to the kitchen and back (“Two boxes lettuce!” “Dozen loaves wheat bread, two dozen white!”) while Brother George himself moves in near-constant motion. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>One moment he’s sitting on a stack of boxes yelling instructions; another, he’s muttering over a clipboard held close to his nose. Then he’s hoisting himself up onto the lip of the truck bed, dragging himself (canes clattering on the metal) to a handhold embedded in the side of the truck’s wall. He’s lifting himself up, he stands—</p>
</div><div>
  <p>And up there he looks like some leader from the Crusades, hunched figure standing tall over the volunteers, framed by the truck’s open back. The full load looks like victory. Simple as that. (A cardboard cut from fifteen minutes in that hurts like a bitch, newly aching muscles, about half a dozen new swear words straight from the mouth of Brother George tucked away in her memory. Simple as that.)</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ava looks down at her hands. Her hands, her hands. She curls her fingers inward, feels the nails bite into her palm one by one. (Look, how curling your fingers creates tension in your forearms. Huh.) She then unfolds them, watching as one by one her fingers do exactly what she tells them to do.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Up on the truck, Brother George laughs at something one of the volunteers says. Two others make a chair of their arms to carefully lower him from the truck to the ground.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Something ugly twists inside her.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>When the job's done, Ava slips away. She avoids the kitchen, avoids the room she’d woken up in. It’s too heavy everywhere. She wanders instead, lets herself get lost in narrow wooden hallways passing monks who don’t know who she is and who (beyond basic human decency) don’t care. This place is building interlocked with building. Push one door open to the outdoors, walk a little bit under a covered archway, and you’re there at the next door. It feels mindless in the best way. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She eventually runs into JC near a sloping tangle of stone pathways, and he invites her to walk with him. It feels easier, now that she’s been open with him. She asks after the crew and he tells her what he knows—Zori and Randall have fallen off the radar, but Instagram posts seem to indicate they had a minor falling-out and went their separate ways after a brief stay in Barcelona. Chanel’s actually not far from Arq-Tech and, from her texts to JC, has started seeing someone older than her who is (naturally) smitten with Chanel. It sounds like a complicated relationship for reasons JC’s unwilling to divulge, but he says Chanel’s the happiest and most at peace he’s ever seen her.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Nice, so she found herself a sugar daddy?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Sugar mommy, actually.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Ooooh, get it, girl!” Ava exchanges a few exclamation point filled text messages with Chanel through JC’s phone and promises to text the moment she has her own phone.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>After so much time spent hiding who she was from JC during her time with the crew (so little time, to be accurate, but anything after those years in Saint Michael’s feels like a small and holy eternity unto itself), it feels odd but such a relief to be open now about her life, about what she can do.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“—so like, Bea was all fwah! But then the bitch tried to <em>shoot</em> her and like, nuh-uh. No way is anyone going to do that to Bea on my watch. So bam! I shock-blasted her into oblivion.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Nice, bro!” JC high-fives her. It takes a few tries to get right, but she rallies. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Oh also, hey! I didn’t tell you! I can phase through walls now.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Bro, you’re just making shit up now.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“No, really, I can! Watch!” She stands up, dusts herself off, and sprints at the nearest building wall.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <hr/>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>It should be absolutely clear that none of what follows is Beatrice’s fault. She was merely taking advantage of the monastery’s pool (the architecture at Cat’s Cradle precludes any possibility of recreational facilities, having been designed in the 16th century). It is Ava who flies through the wall, Ava’s face that morphs from triumphant joy to undiluted regret and terror, Ava who bodily splashes into the water in a wheeling ball of limbs. Beatrice—who’d just dried off after several laps of the pool—is instantly soaked. She calmly dries her face a second time.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Ava?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“—<em>fuck</em>—“ The word is followed by many concerning sounds. Beatrice has only to see Ava dip below the surface of the water before diving in a smooth, practiced arc. Once in the water she gets her arms under Ava’s armpits, maneuvers them toward the pool wall. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ava sputters. It’s not a beautiful sight. Nevertheless, Beatrice is endeared when Ava whines, “Swimming! Pools! <em>Fuck</em>, I hate being rescued.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Language.” She lets go of Ava briefly. (An experiment.) When Ava yelps and clings to her, her suspicions are confirmed.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You can’t swim.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I was paraplegic! Not a lot of field trips to the pool, damn it!”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“So learn to swim.” Ava’s hands tight on her shoulders are warm, gaze intent. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You could teach me."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I…<em>could</em> teach you.” (She is suddenly very aware of their proximity, of Ava’s skin on hers.) She helps Ava climb onto the edge of the pool and gracefully lifts herself up beside her. "Maybe someday. Right now, I don’t think our current state of affairs leaves any room for recreation."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Right, right. Because of Adriel, and Vincent, and…god.” Ava leans back and blinks up at the ceiling. She looks half a step away from crying. “I’m so sorry, Bea.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Ava.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I mean, you were right, everything you said this morning. I should have trusted you guys, I should’ve let you know what I was feeling. I mean, you’re a genius! You had the backup explosives, I bet you could’ve come up with another plan, if I’d just said something of what I was thinking we could’ve been prepared for fucking Adriel."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Ava, please—"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I just want to do what it is I’m supposed to, as the halo bearer. You’re all counting on me and it’s so—“</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“<em>Ava</em>.” Finally, she says it firmly enough that Ava listens. (For once, the stubborn woman.) "I never finished my sentence this morning in the kitchen. What I intended to say is this: We are counting on you to count on us.” Impulsively, she grasps Ava’s hand. (She doesn’t expect the way Ava’s fingers automatically turn beneath hers to slide between her own, gripping back.) “You understand? I meant what I said during your training—you are not alone. I wish you’d remember that. I wish you’d believe me.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I do, Bea. I do believe in you.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Beatrice laughs and shakes her head. “Thank you. I’m not entirely sure it’s warranted, but far be it from me to deny you.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Hey, now—you denied me plenty when I asked if we could stop at McDonald’s on the way to the Vatican.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“That’s different. I understand a certain amount of curiosity but those fries are grease sticks, Ava. Grease. Sticks. They’re atrocious!” She sees Ava open her mouth to retort and she instinctively reaches out to cover her mouth—a leftover habit from Camila’s second year in the Order, when her withdrawn shell had dissolved and a self-ordained mission to befriend every sister in Cat’s Cradle led to more than a few incidents.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ava (of course) licks her hand.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Ugh! Ava! That’s so unsanitary!” The other woman just cackles. (And nearly topples into the water again, but thankfully Beatrice pulls her back in time.)</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I’ll win you over eventually, Bea. Come to the dark side, we have delicious fries.” She waggles her eyebrows. (That’s…unfairly attractive, against all reason.) Beatrice rolls her eyes and takes back both hands, choosing instead to quickly wring out her hair and gather herself a little. Ava’s humming a self-satisfied, unidentifiable little tune, leaned back on the poolside concrete as though she hasn’t a care in the world. Beatrice breaks it. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I need to apologize as well for my behavior this morning,” she says. “I don’t expect forgiveness from you, of course—”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What? That’s ridiculous! Of course I forgive you!”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Ava, no, that’s not how forgiveness works. I wronged you. Let me apologize, yes? Then you can decide what it is you want to do,” she says. Ava looks unhappy, but nods anyway. Beatrice takes a deep breath. “I was cruel, and imprudent. I am more than capable of holding my tongue and I didn’t. I…” She pauses. “I wanted to hurt you, make you feel a little of what I felt when I read that note. Ava, I don’t want to lose you. We can’t. You’re—there is no other. You carry the halo, yes, but it chose you, it determined that you are worthy of choosing. <em>You</em> are worthy.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ava says nothing, only stares at her, seemingly unaware that she’s crying.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I am so sorry, Ava, for all I said. I promise you from now on, I will give you the same trust that I ask of you.” Between blinks, she finds herself with an armful of Ava, whose face—wet with tears, with chlorinated water—is buried in her neck. It mirrors that moment from what feels like so long ago now. It’s not until Beatrice gasps that she tastes the salt on her own lips.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You should know…” Ava sniffs. “I do. Forgive you, I mean."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She couldn’t say how long they sit there, holding each other. Eventually they part. Beatrice does her best to avert her gaze and wipes her eyes as Ava messily rubs her wrist beneath her nose, unfortunately smearing snot more than cleaning it. Of course, it’s just then that Mary walks in. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Meeting in half an hour,” she announces unceremoniously. “Cam’s uncle just arrived. God, you two look like a mess. Are there showers in this place? Ava, you look like someone dunked you in glue and left you to dry.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Takes one to know one,” Ava says wobbily. It’s clearly not her best, but Mary humors her.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You got me there, smartass. See you both in a few."</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>They gather in the same little kitchen Beatrice had left so hastily this morning. Now that she’s here for longer than a few anger-fueled moments, she sees how small it is with everyone crowded in. Sees, too, how tired they all look; half a day of rest is not enough. Mary’s skin is bruising in large patches, a dark and painful rainbow. Her left eye is swollen and a thick bandage rests over the bridge of her swollen nose. Camila’s fared much better, but her damage isn’t as visible—she moves gingerly, an ice pack strapped to her ribs. Beatrice herself spent over an hour the night before tending to her own many small cuts and scrapes, including a nasty one that stretches up her shin from ankle to knee. (There’s only so much the padding of their combat habits can do to protect you when sliding across rough stone as an elderly woman’s cane swings mere centimeters above your head.) And Lilith—</p>
</div><div>
  <p>—walks in, gray hair and dark habit, air around her buzzing in a low-level foreign frequency that evokes a sense of ‘out-of-place-ness’ that is becoming—oddly enough—normal. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> “Lil, where you been?” Mary asks. “Meeting’s about to start, you were gone all day."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Lilith looks confused. “I’m…not sure, precisely.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ava, who after so many emotions in one day must be experiencing some sort of reckless high, slings an arm around Lilith and drags her to the island. “Man, I know exactly how you feel. This place is a maze! I got lost trying to find the bathroom a few buildings over and walked in on some sort of Latin class. Now, I’m no Beatrice, but I definitely leveled up my language game.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She covers her mouth to hide a smile at the look Lilith’s giving Ava, incredulity and disgust simultaneously tempered by and at war with the newfound softness Lilith has seemingly developed for the halo bearer since her return.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Anyway,” says Mary. “Welcome back, Lilith. We’re just about to start discussing what the hell went down and what we do now."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Lilith rounds on Mary at this. “On that note. What were you thinking, Mary? Walking into a crowd of wraith-possessed with only your shotguns? I’ve never known you to do something so dangerously foolish."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“And why didn’t you shoot?” Camila asks. “I know you had some ammo left."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“C’mon, y’all. Of course I wasn’t crowdsurfing possessed people for shits and giggles. Listen, no one pulls out the big guns when they think they’re winning. I figured Adriel had to be weaker than he seemed, or else he was gunning for something else and we were the distraction.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Everyone stares at her.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What? Like y’all are the only ones allowed to be smart? Please. I pull off entire missions by myself. That, and I had a hunch Ava would come in clutch. Remember the fight with Crimson in Shannon’s room?” Beatrice and Ava nod. They do. “You may be new to all of this, Ava, but I trust your instincts. And I wasn’t wrong.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You shouldn’t, though.” Ava is serious. “Not that you shouldn’t…trusting and being trusted is something I need to work on, I get it, but this isn’t about that. It shouldn’t have to come down to a Hail Mary—oh, nice!” She gives herself a little high-five. Everyone groans. “But seriously. Bea? Do you have a plan or any thoughts in that big brain of yours? Because I really don’t want to do this again. I want all of us to take down Adriel, figure out what the fuck’s going on with Father Vincent, and get out of this in one piece."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Beatrice sighs. She doesn’t like what she’s about to say. “I’m not sure, to be honest. There are too many moving pieces, too much we don’t know.” What she’s said sinks in. No can bring themselves to disagree. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Then Cam’s great-uncle comes in at last, a giant of a man, fierce intensity about him. Almost unwillingly Beatrice finds herself on alert. She sees Lilith and Mary tense, too. Camila, however, walks up to him and hugs him without a moment’s hesitation. She half-disappears as he hugs her in return. He pulls back, cradles her face in his large hands.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Your religious name?” He asks.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Maria Camila.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Camila. That’s a beautiful name.” She smiles up at him, a wobbly smile, tears down her cheeks.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Thank you. I’m so glad to see you!”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“And I you.” He drops a kiss on the top of her head, then lets go. “Now.” He turns to the rest of the room. “How may I help?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>They fill him in as best they can, each contributing their part of the story. Some things become clearer (especially as Ava relates what happened in the tomb before Beatrice and Lilith blasted their way to her). Mary shares her theories on the role Vincent may have played in Shannon’s death. It obviously pains her to speak, and she soon falls silent. Still, much remains unclear: The exact origin of the halo, its properties, the source and purpose of the mysterious urges that moved Lilith to try and stop Ava against her conscious will. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“We may have some answers in our library,” Brother James says at last. “It is small but well-organized, and spans the timeframe you are talking about with regards to Areala and the halo’s origin. You are welcome to look over it tomorrow when the librarian is in to help.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Tomorrow?” Ava looks distraught. "Do we have time for that? We have no idea what Adriel’s going to do next, we have to come up with something <em>now</em>—"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Look.” Everyone turns towards Beatrice. “I understand the urgency, I do. And yet we’re exhausted. We are also fortunate at the moment that through the generous aid of Brother James, we have a place to stay tonight. I propose we take tonight to rest and reconvene tomorrow morning. For now, I think we can afford to wait.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I second Beatrice,” Mary says. “I know you’re gung-ho to get going on this, Ava, and I appreciate that, but we don’t all have the halo’s healing powers. We need a little time.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ava looks unhappy, but she nods. Lilith, as if to punctuate what Beatrice and Mary have said, yawns. Some involuntary reflex causes her claws to expand and retract in the process.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“You unnerve me,” JC speaks up, having been silent throughout the entire discussion up to this point. Lilith slowly turns toward him. “All of you! Equally! I’m sorry!”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Good.” Mary claps his shoulder. “It’s called self-preservation. On that note, I’m self-preserving myself right to sleep. Night, all. Don’t let Lilith bite.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Lilith follows her out of the kitchen, muttering, “I’ll have you know that I resent that. Deeply.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“That’s life, babygirl."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Beatrice retrieves her belongings from the room an unconscious Ava had been laid out in just the day before, dancing around the other woman awkwardly as they both try to pretend Beatrice hadn’t spent all night sleeping in a chair just to be near Ava. (At one point it seems as though Ava is going to suggest they continue to share the room. She opens her mouth, closes it. Says nothing after all.) Beatrice sets up camp in a retreat bedroom not far from Ava’s, one of the many tiny, identical rooms. The sleep shirt’s barely over head when she falls into a deep sleep.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>At 3:23am, the building shakes. She is instantly awake. From a distance panicked shouting begins, then grows louder.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Beatrice is out of her bed in an instant and pulls the door to her room open—it takes a not insignificant amount of effort. A few doors down JC stumbles out of his room, coughing. Smoke fills the air, debris littering the hallway behind him. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What the—“ </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ava bursts from another room and swings her head toward JC. Beatrice is about to call to her, to say—something—when a loud, cracking boom rends the air.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“JC!” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Ava dives for him as the wall explodes inwards. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Everything goes dark.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>who among us, in their quest to avoid responsibility, has not experienced the urgent desire to make elegant grass-angels in a garden and let the dirt subsume you??</p><p> </p><p>(catch y’all in the next chapter! —bean)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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